


Best Laid Plans

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 2x05 Alternate Ending, AU, Alternate Ending, Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, UA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 15:10:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5875621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when Simmons' extraction plan fails? 2x05 AU/Alternate ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“RUN!”  
  
“THERE’S NO ONE THERE!”

But Simmons jumps anyway. In that instant, she imagines herself plummeting into the water or shattering like crystal on the dark road beneath them. The bottom drops out of her stomach and she involuntarily screams. 

Bobbi throws herself at the scientist, catching her and rolling with her onto the Quinjet’s invisible roof so that she doesn’t break a bone. The sound of gunfire either drops off, or is drowned out by the engines. The roof begins to open and Bobbi smiles as the adrenaline starts to fizzle out of her veins.

 “That your first time skydiving?” she quips, hoping to calm Doctor Simmons’ nerves. She grins down at the scientist, but Simmons’ face is blank, her body limp. Bobbi’s smile drops.

“TRIP, WE’VE GOT CODE RED.”

—

Bobbi huffs a sigh of temporary, hopeful relief as the monitor _blips_ back to life. She scoops her hair out of her face with bloody hands, and grimaces.

“I got this,” Trip says, already unpacking the rest of the first aid kit and setting to work. “Get me some light in here and take the wheel. Call it in.”

Bobbi nods, and all but dives for the controls.

“Come in, come in. This is Shield 2-20, we need medical assistance immediately upon arrival at the Playground, ETA five minutes. Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Critical condition. Repeat, Shield 2-20. Immediate medical assistance required.”

Heartbeats pass, then there is a crackle on the other end of the line.

_“Copy that, 2-20. Director’s being contacted. Medical assistance assembling.”  
_

Bobbi nods and clenches her fists around the joystick.

“Don’t you die on me, Jemma Simmons,” she mutters, glaring at the skyline as if she can make it come closer by sheer force of will as she presses the Quinjet forward.

—

As they pull up to yet another set of traffic lights, the atmosphere in the SUV is approximately equal parts sorrowful, and tense. In the driver’s seat, May glares straight ahead. In the back, Skye would be hugging her knees if the seats allowed it, but as they do not, she settles for allowing Coulson to put an arm around her shoulders. Hunter tries not to watch too closely, because he’ll eventually feel the need to comment and it is not his place.

Then Coulson’s cell rings, and for a moment they are all grateful for the distraction. But a moment is all it takes for the Director’s face to drop blank. Ice creeps into his veins. His hands go cold and lose feeling.

“What?” May demands, glancing up at the rear view mirror, where Coulson’s eyes find hers.

“Simmons is down.”

May clenches her jaw and the car lurches forward so fast it nearly throws everyone out of their seats. They leave the lights to turn green on their tails.

—

All the lab lights come on at once. The white is like a bucket of ice water thrown over his head. Then red and green start to flash: on the roof, near the doors, and near important first-action resources. Fitz tries not to seize up as the accompanying sirens begin to blare overhead. He cringes as he gets out of his seat, and strains his eyes to watch the other lab techs change their pattern of action like bees. It gets harder not to cower as lights and sound crowd his vision. First he clings to the edge of the bench to keep steady as the world blurs and sways around him, but then he moves his hands, trying to grasp at memory. He has been through the procedures of a thousand drills, he knows them off by heart, he can do them without thinking; they are muscle memory _somewhere._ At least, they once were, but he can’t remember what to do now. He starts to breathe faster, and as he tells himself not to panic, his heart accelerates and his hands begin to shake.

 Strong, warm hands brace his shoulders.

“Woah man, breathe,” Mack says. “We’re just gonna step out for a second, okay?”

Fitz nods his consent, it’s all he can do as he fights to get his breathing under control. His chest constricts. His hands curl around himself, fingers worrying his sleeves, but he can’t shield himself from his own panic. Mack’s hands on his back guide him out of the lab and into the hall, where he pulls away and doubles over, hands on his knees, trying to breathe. Mack tries to approach again, but Fitz waves him away. He just needs a second, he tells himself – and he would tell Mack, but words aren’t going to come out at this point so he doesn’t try. He just needs a bit of space, and he needs the quiet, just for a second. That’s all he needs. He’s just got to get back under control and then he can remember what to do and go help. He’s just got- he’s just got-

—

“What?! What do you mean Simmons is down? What happened to your ‘plan’?!”

Wide-eyed, heart pounding with fear and rage, Skye braces herself in the corner, grabbing the door and Coulson’s arm, as May weaves the SUV through traffic like a bullet.

“They’re out,” Coulson explains, “en route back to base, but she got hit and it doesn’t look good.” 

“This isn’t coz of me, is it? This whole alien-dad thing.”

“Of course not. If this is on anyone, it’s on me.”

“It’s on whoever shot her,” May corrects, coldly. 

“Woah, guys, hang on a minute. Let’s keep our heads up, aye?” Hunter interjects. “She doesn’t need us giving up on her before we get to her.”

“Right.” Coulson nods, but his heart is in his throat. 

—

Fitz digs his fingers into his knees until he can feel it; until finally, _finally,_ he pulls his breathing back under control. He starts to straighten as the sirens and flashing lights in his head begin to dim, but the constricted feeling in his chest does not pass.

Mack’s expression is sympathy, pity, and a little bit of panic. He holds his arms open, hands up in a non-threatening gesture, but he leans in, just a little too insistent. When he moves to take a step forward, Fitz leans away, and though Mack doesn’t press on, Fitz’ mind begins to tick. Something’s going on that Mack knows and he doesn’t, and this time, it’s important.

“It’s alright, they’ve got this,” Mack assures him gently. It’s unusually appeasing for Mack, who doesn’t treat him like broken glass. Fitz frowns, alarm bells ringing.

“Who’s – who’s got what?” he wheezes. He’s not really looking for an answer, he just wants to know if Mack knows what’s going on. Analysing helps him focus. His breathing comes closer to resting, his heart slows, his tremors subside, and  _still_ that constriction in his chest persists.

Mack sighs.

“Fitz, man, let’s go grab some tea, ai’ight?” He tries to approach once more, and Fitz pulls back, more assertively this time. He hits the wall, but he barely feels it, because his mind is catching up, and the constriction in his chest is beginning to make sense.

_They’re keeping things from me and I just wanna know why._

_You’re barely holding it together. There’s a reason they’re keeping things from you._

_“I’ll tell them you said hello.” She’d tucked her hair behind her ears._

_Skye’s source._

_Simmons is on an assignment._

“Oh, Lord.”

Fitz’ arms curl around him. He slides down the wall. His mouth is dry, and bears a strange taste, like copper. Is he bleeding? His eyes sting. His vision blurs with tears.

He can hear footsteps. Coulson, shouting.

_“I told you to get him out of here!”  
_

The plane is landing. The lab techs run out to meet it and Fitz hears the stretcher roll past. He stares at his knees as voices clamour and merge.

_“We were almost out, they were shooting from the roof…”_

_“…internal bleeding…”_

_“…flatlined twice on the way…”_

_“…her left lung…”_

_“God, Simmons, no.”_

_“Are you in or are you out?”_

_“I- I can’t.”_

The voices become muffled as the door closes behind them. Two footsteps later, a heavy weight drops beside him. It is Skye. She’s got tears streaming down her face. She mimics his position and wraps her arms around his shoulders, and he wraps his hands around her back, grateful for the stability and the physical contact as the pulse monitor blares doom.

“ _CLEAR!”_ cuts above the muffled sounds.

A muted _fzzt._ The monitor drones on. Feet shuffle, voices whisper, and build up, and then: 

_“CLEAR!”_

A muted _fzzt._ The monitor drones on. Feet shuffle, voices whisper, and build up, and again:

_“CLEAR!”_

A muted _fzzt._ The monitor drones on. Uninterrupted.

Skye’s fingers tighten in the material of Fitz’ shirt. She buries her face in his shoulder. He sees her shake with sobs and her tears darken his shirt, but he feels neither. He rests the side of his head on the top of Skye’s, and stares blankly at the wall opposite, internalizing the endless buzz, expecting any second now his own organs to collapse, his vision to go dark. If he doesn’t wake up, maybe he’ll just start screaming. But he doesn’t feel like screaming. He feels like drowning.

He remembers arms wrapped tightly around him. The kisses she pressed to his face. He remembers the warmth he held in his heart at that last moment, because his words were out there and she knew and she was going to live and everything was going to be okay after all. He remembers the joy he felt, giving her his breath. It was like nothing he had ever felt before.

Even when she had walked away, he could take it, because as long as she was alive, he could endure. He could live through the loneliness, and the banality, and the uselessness, and the loss of his words, if she was okay.

But she’s not. And he’s not. And there are no words for what he is feeling now, except perhaps her name, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to say it, or anything else, ever again. 


	2. Chapter 2

Coulson scrubs his hands for the umpteenth time. The soap foam is a light pink, the colour of fairy floss. He watches it run down the drain and begins again. His hands shake, they still feel hot with her blood, and he can’t wipe the image of her injury from his mind.

_Nobody needs to get hurt,_ Raina had promised.

Coulson looks up at his own face in the mirror, gaunt and tear-streaked. He wonders how many people are hurt after all, and how deeply.

_You’re very likeable,_ he’d said. He wishes he’d been less clinical about it now. Jemma Simmons was so much more than likeable. She was kind. She was honest. She was brave.

“You lied to me,” a quiet voice interrupts.

Coulson turns away from the mirror to see Fitz, holding out a bottle of disinfectant. His shoulders are hunched, his cardigan sagging, his eyes soft and shining as tears continue to run down his cheeks. Coulson takes the disinfectant, and Fitz wipes his face with the corner of his sleeve, but the tears do not stop. He takes a deep breath and soldiers through the sentence:

“You lied to me, and she lied to me, and I’m not mad, I just wanna know _why.”_

His hands shake. He laces his fingers together. His eyes are steady on Coulson, who looks, above anything else, surprised.

“I’m not sure how long whole- whole sentences are going to last,” Fitz continues. “I haven’t – I haven’t looked at her yet. Just please. Tell me why.”

“It’s not important,” Coulson says.

“It is. It is _so bloody important Coulson just- just-“_ Fitz squeezes his eyes shut and clenches a fist. He refuses to combust. It’s not hard, now, given the effort it is taking him just to stand on the edge of the pit of sorrow he’s temporarily dragged himself out of.

Coulson sighs. “Simmons- Jemma- was following my instructions. I told her to lie to you. I thought it would be for the best. I sent Bobbi in to protect her, with orders for immediate extraction if anything went wrong. This was never supposed to happen.”

Even before the words come out of his mouth, Coulson knows they are not good enough. Nothing is ever good enough to justify, to explain, the death of an agent, of a friend, of…maybe more. He watches with pity and pride as Fitz, pinching the bridge of his nose in one hand, takes a long, slow breath, in through his nose, and lets it out through his mouth, and pieces together another sentence.

“She wouldn’t - she would not have been able to lie to me unless she wanted to. Why.” 

“Fitz, I don’t th-”

His free hand clenches into a fist. 

“Noth- nothing can get worse from this point, not a thing. The last thing Jem-Jem- _ah.”_ His fist clenches and unclenches, searching for the words. He takes a deep breath and they flood out.

“ _The-last-thing-she-said-to-me-was-a-lie-and-I-need-to-know-the-truth-and-it-matters-because-I-need-to-know-if-she_ loved _me.”_

Fitz’ eyes open wide, pleading. He swallows hard. He can taste the salt of his tears but he has a feeling that’s a taste he’s going to have to get used to. He waits for a response.

Coulson’s eyes are wide now, too. Fitz’ shining sky-blue ones look lost, more than anything, and they remind Coulson of the boy he met, not so long ago, surprised to learn not only that Phil Coulson was alive, but that he was being given special privileges to that information because he was being asked to work on a highly exclusive specialist team. His questions had not been about the nature of their missions; the what or the where or the how. They had not been about Coulson’s mysterious survival, or the fact that he had not passed his field assessment and had no right to be going anywhere. The first words out of his mouth had been, “what did Simmons say?”

Coulson remembers Jemma Simmons crumbling into tears in his office as she’d attempted to rationale her proposal to leave. She’d pinched her nose with one hand and let the other flail mid-air – he wonders now, who had picked that up from whom – and her words had risen into hysteria as the distress of her confession had compounded her feelings. 

_“The way he looks at me, like he’s sorry he’s like this, I don’t know what to do! I don’t know what to say! He wants me to think he’s good enough and I do, of course I do, but no matter what I tell him he won’t believe me! He keeps looking at me like I’m going to fix him and I can’t, and I-”_

With a relieved sigh, she’d fallen quiet as he’d tucked her to his side, and waited gently for her to regain control. He wishes now that he’d just let her cry. That he’d made her as aware as humanly possible that somebody cared wholly and completely about how she felt. He’d told himself at the time that she didn’t want sympathy, and maybe she hadn’t, but she had needed it, and he had failed her.

_“Have you tried telling him you love him?”_ he’d asked instead.

_“Well,”_ she’d sniffed, “ _I don’t know if I do – not in that way – and I don’t want to lie to him. Not about that. He deserves better.”_

_You both do,_ he wishes he’d said.

“Of course she loves you,” he says instead.

Hoping, but not expecting it, a whine escapes Fitz’ throat. He trembles like he’s about to collapse and Coulson embraces him, like he failed to embrace Simmons, and feels his own tears running fresh as Fitz clings fiercely back, shaking. 

“She loves you so much,” Coulson insists. “She cried for hours on the way out. She told me how you like your tea. She showed me how to make basil pesto aioli. She made me promise to make sure you hung up your clothes. Every time we talked she asked how you were, and I gave her nothing but she never stopped trying. She would tear down worlds for you, Fitz. Never doubt that. She thought she was hurting you, and I swear to you, on her life, that is the only thing that could have ever made her leave you. The only thing.”

Fitz’ fingers loosen their choking grip, but he does not release Coulson. Instead, he lets Coulson squeeze him tighter as his shaking dissolves into quiet sobs.


End file.
